The Devil Inside Me
by Kisara-Rini
Summary: Inspired by season 7, Sam/Lucifer. (with implied mentions of non-con) Sort of an experimentally written piece about Sam and Lucifer's coexistence. How they handle living with one another from day to day. Could be set somewhere in season 7. (rated to be on the safe-side/for thematic reasons)


Dean would watch him sleep some nights.

Sam would lie very still, only move on occasion.

But in the morning, Sam was covered in bruises. Discolored skin that resembled hickies. Claw marks down his back. And he had shadows under his eyes, looking as if he hadn't slept in weeks.

Sam wouldn't say anything about it.

Dean wouldn't know how to ask. Or maybe, he couldn't understand how it was possible.

But wrapped up inside Sam's mind was a hell he couldn't escape. Lucifer reigned there. And unconscious, Sam could not control his own mind.

Lucifer would persist, torment, taunt. Press even closer to Sam than was imaginable. He was already beneath Sam's skin, twisted inside his mind, how could he possibly get any closer to Sam?

Lucifer would. He knew how to push all the right (or perhaps wrong) buttons. After all, who knew Sam better than the angel in his head?

Nights were always the worst. No forms of outside distraction. No way to ignore him. No way to...escape. Trapped as they were, bound together while Sam's body was unconscious. Restless on the inside, they spent the hours awake together inside the landscape of their jointly created, mental prison.

The mind is scary, complicated, and (when it comes right down to it) downright unexplainable. While not a physical realm, it is very real. Perhaps, because it can make anything seem and feel just as real as the physical world. The mental scars we carry can even outweigh the physical ones.

So could Dean tell Sam that what was happening to him wasn't real? Just an illusion? His mind playing tricks on him? That it didn't really count?

No, he couldn't.

Sam may have sported the blemishes from his nightly encounters on his skin in the morning, but Dean watched him sleep. Sam never lashed out once, nor did he hurt himself in any way. Somehow, what happened in his head was etching itself into his skin. And even if it weren't, Dean wouldn't have been able to convince himself, or Sam, that these were merely nightmares. Night terrors.

Dean knew Sam whispered to someone when he was alone. Had heard him yelling at something else when there hadn't been another soul around. He'd seen him staring down an empty chair, for god's sake.

Dean just didn't know what he could possibly do about it.

Sam just didn't know how to tell his brother what was really happening when he closed his eyes.

While unspoken, they both knew what was going on. And they both went on pretending that nothing was happening. And so they both continued to let Lucifer win.

Content to pass the hours in a gleeful countdown 'til lights out, Lucifer did as he pleased. Whatever his mood elicited. Some days, he was altogether pleasant to Sam. They had meaningful moral debates, in depth conversations on philosophy and science, or just plain enjoyed doing research together. There were some days that Sam could have honestly said he liked. On those days, when night would come, Lucifer would often let Sam just sleep. Peacefully. For whatever reasons he had. Sometimes they were manipulative, sometimes they were genuine. It was usual a grey area of both, if you wanted to really get into it.

But there were also the bad days. When Luci didn't want to, or care to, help with research. He was bored. Sam wasn't engaging with him. And he would get restless. Occasionally, he would be mollified by watching Sam try his darnedest to continue at whatever it was he was doing, just to see how long Sam could keep it up before he snapped. Lucifer mostly cracked him, in the end. Rarely, Sam would prevail. And Lucifer would nod and look mildly impressed. As a reward, Sam would be allowed to get through the night. Depending on Luci's mood, as everything did, this wasn't always the case. If Sam's winning was on a really bad day, Lucifer only had cause to be more furious with his host. Those nights...well, they never ended well.

You see, their coexistence was just so hit or miss, that you couldn't always predict how things were going from one minute to the next. Most days were a combination of the good and the bad. And most nights were a struggle. Sometimes Sam lost it. Sometimes he didn't.

So did Sam like the devil?

Well, sometimes he didn't hate him. And yeah, on a couple of occasions, one might go so far as to say yes, yes he may just like him. For a moment. But only for those brief instances.

As for Lucifer? Well, it was a symbiotic love and hatred. And yes, I would say love. In his own twisted sense of the word, Lucifer really did cherish his little (not so little) Winchester. At the very least, you'd have to admit that Luci got a kick out of him.

And hell, he really did enjoy their nights together. Even the slightly possessive (yet sentimental) ones, when he would merely watch Sam sleep, caressing his cheek with a finger, or brushing a strand of hair behind one ear—always gently, so as not to wake him. He'd watch him with a fond smile curving his lips, and a strange glint in his eyes that could have been interpreted a number of ways.

Some nights he curled up against Sam, Sam tensing at the contact and potential threat of Lucifer's proximity. Sometimes Lucifer only wrapped an arm around his waist and pressed himself close to Sam. Would whisper playfully, or even sweetly, in Sam's ear and hold on to him while they both slept. And those nights, Sam would eventually release his tension, let out a sigh of relief that he had somehow been let off the hook, and relax enough to drift off with the devil clinging to him. He might even adjust himself slightly to be settled more comfortably beside Lucifer. To the point of getting that feeling of being safe and secure and, well, at peace in his arms. And he would fall asleep with a smile, somehow managing to feel that sense of loving warmth, and yet simultaneously denying its existence.

Those were the best nights. The rarest ones, unfortunately. But they occurred often enough for Sam to...perhaps...hope for them. Long for them. Look forward to them? Be glowing on the inside from how much he loved (no, definitely not loved) them? Some nights, he didn't flinch when he felt that arm slither around his waist. He would shift back against Lucifer and feel like they were puzzle pieces. They just felt...so unified. Perfect. And it was just so warm under the covers, in his mind (or was it in his mind? Maybe Lucifer was outside of him and a solid figment beside his physical self?), and everything was so comfortable and somehow peaceful.

Tonight just happened to be one of those nights.

And was Lucifer gripping him a little tighter than he normally did on these kinds of nights? Was he inching his face closer to the back of Sam's neck, inhaling Sam's scent? Was it Sam's imagination, or was that Lucifer's thumb stroking back and forth across Sam's chest while the rest of his hand remained still.

And surely it was Sam's imagination that his heart was starting to beat all the more rapidly. His skin beginning to radiate heat. A flush creeping over his cheeks. His eyelids flickering open and closed. An unconscious sigh of longing escaping his lips. Eyes rolling back as Lucifer pressed somehow even closer to him than would seem possible. The ache of desperate yearning gnawing at his chest...no, definitely imagining that one.

And Sam certainly did not let out a short shudder of agonized relief from merely a whisper of 'Sam' in his ear. Or clutch desperately at the arm groping his chest, and enjoy the feeling of pressing back against Lucifer while the devil somehow clung ever tighter.

The built up heat and friction between their bodies—as Sam kept his eyes closed so as to not see Dean in the bed across from him—must have been imagined. And oh god, when he couldn't take the teasing of their clothes, or not being able to feel Lucifer encircling him, making him safe in his hold, Sam didn't turn around in a frenzied hurry to meet those burning lips while tears stung at the corner of his eyes. Or moan when that snake-like tongue entered his mouth. Or let Lucifer press him against the mattresses and be firmly on top of him. Or frantically claw at his back, trying to keep them as close as was possible.

No, Sam couldn't have helped him when the devil pulled off Sam's sweat pants, and then his own. And when Lucifer lied back down between Sam's legs, there was no way in hell that Sam was eagerly anticipating what Lucifer was planning to do with him.

The room's unheard echoes of 'oh god,' which were always met with some form of retort from Lucifer (tonight it was 'no, just your angel'), were the cries of undeniable pleasure. You see, tonight, Sam moaned in ecstasy with the devil. There was no power play, no unsolicited advances that eventually brought out uncontainable utterances from Sam, and Lucifer—for once—had certainly not started it.

Sam had reacted. The moment Lucifer had touched his skin. Sam had anticipated. The second the lights had gone out. And Sam had longed. The entire day, in the hopes that this would be a good night. Because Sam had a secret.

And Lucifer had been sensing this the entire day.

All those bad nights. All those tame ones. Their fighting and bickering. The occasional laughter. The long conversations that kept getting longer. Lucifer's teasing. Sam's resisting. The back and forth's of their coexistence. Somewhere...somehow...something had started to change.

When things would get bad, which of course was rather often still, Sam just couldn't keep up with the fighting. The struggling. He was too exhausted. And Lucifer kept wearing him down. Sam started giving up, and giving in, more and more easily. Eventually, it hadn't taken Lucifer long at all to throw him down and dig his nails into his skin. Mar his body so Sam would remember who owned it. Nip and bite his flesh, and try to cause him pain just to make Sam feel him all the more. The crazed and possessive claim that Lucifer was continuing to place on Sam, well, Sam had started to flat out let him have it.

Which was something he couldn't, or wouldn't, admit to himself. There was no reasoning or explanation he could offer himself. Only that somewhere along the way, part of him began to want it. Want the way Lucifer would grip at his hair. Enjoy that twisted tongue when it tangoed with his own. Hell, Sam would get hot and bothered by their damn intellectually pushing one another. And frankly, he couldn't help it that his body began to crave Lucifer despite his mind. Or perhaps because of it.

Because this night, had been brought about by a day, that started off with Sam waking to the thought of having just one sincere moment with Lucifer. And he couldn't have hidden that fleeting idea from the devil if he wanted to.

And if Sam had wanted it, maybe his other half had too.

So there had been no struggle, just a cohabiting. They had been as fluid as water, taking the ebbs and flows as they came. Moving together, in unison, both going with the tides of the day and their moods. Neither one of them had crashed upon the other, as per the usual. And when night fell, and there were no more swells, and they became stagnant together, they were both relieved.

And Sam had been giving an excused reason to not feel guilty. Because that night, they were supposed to be as one. Equally. As if it were the logical conclusion. It wasn't something done to either of them, it just simply was.

And they were.

Finally, able to crash upon one another, peacefully and contentedly exhausted. Sam and Lucifer held onto each other once more, sharing an occasional kiss, or two, or maybe more. Silent, smiling, and eventually sleeping, the two were blissfully happy. And for that instance, and possibly due to the little moments that had lead up to it, you might say that Sam Winchester loved the devil.

You might even be right.


End file.
